Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

but it has a major buzz to it, it’s so vibrant, and there’s always so much going on. Whatever you’re into you can do it with bells on there. And without your mother hearing about it.
    Here it feels like tea and stale biscuits with my Nana on a rainy Sunda y afternoon.
    I park Mum’s car at the club and hop out, grabbing my bag and racquet f rom the passenger seat. There are a couple of teenage boys playing on one of the courts, both with amazingly powerful forehands. They’re joking with one another and making light of their unforced errors, but I can tell it’s just loosely veiled war and they’re out for one another’s blood.
    I go in through the front doors of the club and find my way to the women’s changing rooms on the left. After slipping into my tennis out fit I survey myself in the full-length mirror. Not quite Maria Sharapova, but not too shabby. The red and white outfit complements my green eyes and fair skin, still with a touch of the tan I'd got from my week on the beach in Greece a month or so ago.
    I have just enough time to swish my shoulder-length dark hair up into a ponytail when I hear voices chatting animatedly and two middle-aged women in tennis clothes walk through the door into the changing room.
    “ I know! Especially when he helps you with your racquet grip,” says one of the women. She fans her grinning face with her hand.
    “ Oh my, yes. Now that’s something he can help me with any day,” says the other, looking flushed, clearly thinking about whoever it is that’s incited such feelings.
    My guess is it’s their tennis coach and they’ve both just enjoyed a hands-on lesson with him. The women sigh, both seemingly lost in their randy thoughts, and then simultaneously notice me standing close by, quite obviously watching them. They look a little taken aback, so I smile awkwardly at them, say “hi”, turn the key on my locker and then slip out the door.
    Taylor, the receptionist, points me towards one of the courts at the back of the complex where the session is about to begin.
    It’s a stunning spring day - cool but bright and sunny. It strikes me the air is much fresher here than in London, but then it’s not surprising, considering there are only about thirty people who actually live here breathing it.
    I know , I’m exaggerating.
    Most importantly though, it’s not windy, which is quite miracu lous for Wellington, especially at this time of year. I know people complain about the wind in Wellywood, and if you’re not used to it, it comes as a serious shock. I’ve literally had to hold onto traffic light poles while waiting to cross the road and have sacrificed many an umbrella to the wind gods on a wet and windy day. It’s not an understatement in any way to say you certainly don’t move here for the weather.
    As I approach the court I hear an American man’s voice float over to me from a group of people. Although I can only see the back of his head and the rest of him is obscured by the throng of eager women, I can see enough to work out he’s probably the coach the middle-aged women were getting all flustered about in the changing room.
    I bet he’s some old, greying has-been in reasonably good shape who’s got the housewives all excited because he shows them a little interest and flatters their egos.
    Well , he won’t have any such effect on me. I lean over at the edge of the court to put my bag next to the others and take out my racquet.
    But as I straighten up and look over at the group he turns around and locks me with his piercing gaze, smiling at me as he listens to one of the women’s animated stories about how his coaching had helped her beat a member from an opposing club the previous week.
    Oh. My. God. I catch my breath as I take in his Greek Adonis-like gorgeousness , feeling a blush rising up my neck. He’s probably about 6’2” or 6’3”, broad-shouldered, athletic, full head of not even slightly greying hair. When he smiles he reveals a